


Tied

by wailing_whale



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - No Game, Blind Character, Blind!John, Deteriorating Relationship, Established Relationship, F/M, Fem!John - Freeform, Fluff, Genderbending, Living Together, Miscommunication, Sadstuck, Unplanned Pregnancy, dave needs to learn to stop over reacting, joan needs to learn to listen some more, ooohhhh boy lots and lots of miscommunication, potential break up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wailing_whale/pseuds/wailing_whale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave hates described video. Joan still loves movies. It's like a nature documentary movie except instead of zebras being ripped apart on camera it's Dave crying on the tiled floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first (serious) fic and I did it for a short story project for school (making teachers read fanfic... yes). I'd love to hear any sort of feedback and if there's any interest, I might continue the story. Tell me what you think in the comments!

“HE OFFERS A BOUQUET OF FLOWERS TO HIS LOVER, WHO ACCEPTS THEM AND HUGS HIM WARMLY IN RETURN.”

I try not to be that harsh of a guy, but I really fucking _hate_ watching things in described video.  

At first it was ok, I guess, having to watch everything as if I couldn’t see the screen that was so clearly 5 feet in front of me. It was almost easy to put up with, since Joan still loved her movies as much as ever, and who was I to tell her that movie dates couldn’t be a thing anymore? She loved movie dates, and I did too, at one point.

But it’s hard to stay enthusiastic when every movie, newscast, soap opera, cartoon, and spanx infomercial you watched had to be defiled by the deceptively soft voice of someone who had never even belonged in the original script. Dragging every subtle nuance and facial expression into the stark realm of audio, when the only place they rightfully belonged was strictly visual.

Maybe I’m just being a pain in the ass about this.

I looked back up to the screen in the semi-dimmed room, trying to ignore the unwelcome voice and just watch the rest of the movie.

“THE WOMAN LEANS UP TO WHISPER IN HIS EAR.”

“I love you.” The words seeped from the television speakers like slow honey, but they seemed to echo around for a moment, coming at me from more than one source. I glanced over at Joan in confusion, as if she could still read my expression. She was leaned up against me, her eyes closed and face resting against my shoulder, but clearly not asleep. She never fell asleep during movies.

Dark, messy hair framed her face, some of the strands stubbornly clinging to my sweater and weaving themselves into the fabric there. She kept her eyes resolutely shut, but her lips deceived her, curled into a mischievous smile, and I realized that I had heard the line from more than just the tv. I tried to make a returning smirk, but decided that it wasn’t worth faking a show of gratitude if she couldn’t see it anyways.

“If this movie is so predictable, why’d you even pick it?” I asked, speaking over the film.

She shrugged and stretched lazily in the half-light of the television. It cast a blue glow around her face, making her cheeks seem hollow and ghostly, a cheap knock-off of what they once were. The final scene of the movie played out and then ended in silence. Credits began to roll and we were left with the sound of hard rain upon our rooftop, wind battering the windows with dead leaves. The room we sat is was too humid in this kind of weather, but I could hardly push Joan off of me because of that.

Yawning, Joan blinked a few times and looked up at me, her blue eyes focused just a few inches off from my face. “I thought it’d be a nice film. I liked it.”

“You like all the movies,” I replied, letting my own eyes roll, confident that she couldn’t tell. She was getting better at reading my expressions just by tone of voice, but she still wasn’t perfect at it.

“Maybe,” she said, “But I think I want to get some sleep.”

I sighed softly and dutifully took my cue. Standing up, I gripped Joan’s hand to guide her off the couch and together we left the small living room. Her hand skimmed across the painted sheetrock of the hall walls, the sound like sandpaper against her skin. I was well aware that she knew how to get to the bedroom on her own, of course she knew, we’d been living in this tiny apartment for almost half a year now, but I think she liked me guiding her around anyways. It was mostly habit on both our counts and I never had the heart to put up a fight about it. So that’s just how things were now—we both fell into our routine and we didn’t talk about it again.

“You aren’t coming, Dave?” she asked, already slipping under the covers, expecting me to follow like usual. I had spaced out, lost in my thoughts, and was hovering just inside the dark bedroom, watching her with glazed eyes.

“Nah. Not really tired.”

She shrugged a little, already rolling over to face away from me. I left the room in shadows and returned back to the movie, not bothering to turn on a light to guide me there. Cold light played around my slipper-shod feet and threw long swatches of dark onto the floorboards behind me as the credits streamed by steadily before of me. I cut the tv to cable and immediately turned off the described video, which was set to automatically start up.

Left in peace, I sat heavily down on the couch, which was mustier and more stained than I really felt comfortable with, but I had long since found that I could ignore it. A bag of chips rested on the coffee table, reflecting and dancing with blue illumination, housing several more emptied bags of chips inside. The carpet under my feet was littered with crumbs, which was one of the main reasons that I wore slippers, and the kitchen across the apartment was home to more dirty dishes than I think we even owned. I ignored all these things, because really, who had time for house chores anymore? Between the multiple trips to specialists, trying to keep Joan from falling down any stairs, and trying to keep _myself_ sane, I haven’t had much energy for anything but work and sleep.  And of course, the occasional, obligatory, in-house movie date. The dust bunnies under my bed would just have to wait for spring cleaning. Maybe next year’s spring, judging from the way things were going.

I flipped listlessly through the channels before settling on something that looked like a children’s program, cartooned and cheerful with prepackaged laughter. I muted it immediately.

This was probably the first time in a week that I had the chance to think, just good and proper _think_ with no other distractions, and there was no way I could waste that opportunity, even if I wanted so desperately to forget the world for a while.

Because the truth was, I couldn’t handle this anymore.

It wasn’t because Joan was blind, it had _never_ been because she was blind. To be honest, her new disability almost made me want to love her more. I needed to be there to take care of her, to make sure she didn’t burn the building down or walk into an empty elevator shaft. She couldn’t live a normal life without me, so here I was.

But that didn’t mean I had ever signed up for this type of life.

I looked up at the tv, taking a moment to just calm myself. I couldn’t afford to start thinking that way for any length of time. Sternly, I reminded myself that I wasn't just Joan’s boyfriend, I was her caretaker and I couldn’t let myself be distracted from that duty. Especially not for something stupid like my petty complaints.

The screen was still playing the cartoon, still muted, and I squinted as I finally paid it some attention. A man dressed in ridiculous, coloured tights flew across the scene, his caricatured muscles bulging and his chin strong. He swooped down and scooped up a woman in a puffy, powder blue dress and red lips, who clung to him daintily as they flew higher up into the sky. A crowd, far below on the ground, cheered the duo on.

My thumb found the remote and pressed down, cutting the scene short and dousing the room in blackness.

I sat there a while more and let my body sink against the worn cushions, welcoming the humid dark with a slow sigh. The rain kept at its attack on the building, searching for a way in. Fog grew quietly on the windows, clouding any view to the deserted, wet streets outside.

I’m not sure how long I stayed there, mulling things over a thousand times and hating myself a little more with each second, but it was long enough for me to doze off, still sitting mostly upright, and then jerk awake when my neck fell forwards without any support. I squeezed my eyes together a few times, trying to erase the grogginess in them.

With a yawn, I reached in-between the cushions for my phone. The screen was too bright for the dark I was used to and I had to blink again before the letters were coherent.

1:27am.

1 new message from Rose.

Frowning, I opened the message.

Rose: It’s been a while since we last spoke. How are you faring?

I rubbed at my eyes. Typical Rose, always there when I needed her most and wanted her least.

But as much as I pretended to hate her, having a therapist as a sister does have its upsides.

Dave: you still awake

I turned off my screen after I sent that, returning back to blackness for another moment. I wasn’t exactly expecting Rose to get back to me, since she had sent her message well before Joan left for bed and Rose rarely ruined her sleep cycle for trivial things like her whiny brother.

So I was surprised, maybe pleasantly so, when my phone buzzed with an incoming text.

Rose: Dave, it’s 1 in the morning. Of course I’m awake.

Dave: oh right i forgot about the little tyke

Rose: Yes, 4 month old children are often easy to let slip from the mind.

Rose: Especially when they cry for exceedingly strenuous lengths of time and your husband can do nothing but roll over and ask, “Can you take care of her tonight, honey?”

Dave: so youre kinda busy huh

Rose: That’s one way of phrasing it. But I have some time at present - Lily’s finally starting to doze off. What’s on your mind?

Dave: why do i have to have something on my mind

Dave: cant a guy just text his sister at 2 in the morning without gettin on the receiving end of a god damn interrogation

Rose: You texted me, Dave. You only text me when you have some kind of problem to discuss. So spill.

I ran a hand through my hair, fluffing up the blonde strands and scraping my nails over my scalp. It was strangely soothing, so I did it again, feeling the tangy lines of pain across my skin. I closed my eyes for a moment and sighed.

Dave: do you ever think about leaving

Dave: like just pack up your bags and ditch life for a few days

Dave: or months

Rose: That’s called stress. It means you still care about something, which is, in popular opinion at least, a positive sign.  

I gnawed on my cheek, not wanting to go on further with my explanation, but knowing that at this point, Rose had probably already figured out my position. She was a lot quicker than she usually let on about this kind of stuff. I gave my screen a few more stares and sighed again, not sure what to say in return.

Rose beat me to it anyways, already sending off a second message.

Rose: I hope you know it’s perfectly acceptable to be unhappy with your relationship, Dave. This isn’t an uncommon situation for people like you.

So she did know what was bothering me. Figured as much.

Dave: what exactly does that mean

Dave: people like me

Rose: You know precisely what this is concerning. You’re not satisfied with being tied down to a person with a disability.

Dave: dont say it like that

Dave: tied down

Dave: makes it seem like shes some kinda job or something

It took her a moment to reply, and in the meantime I stared at the words she wrote, at the words _I_ wrote, and I swallowed hard. I knew exactly what Rose was about to say now. That acute knowledge pained me more than the words themselves as they finally flashed up on my phone.

Rose: Isn’t she, though? To you?

Dave: ouch

Rose: Dave, I’m just trying to help you come to your own conclusions. You and Joan were a nice couple and I’d love to see what full potential you two once had restored again. But you need to make an effort for that to happen.

Dave: what do you think ive been doing these past 4 months

Dave: my entire world is currently revolving around makin an effort for her

Dave: im like the dave satellite of embodied human concern and im just whipping through space orbiting around her at the speed of light

Rose: Are your concern-equipped spacemen doing a stellar job of keeping the home planet placated?

Dave: well thats the plan

Dave: but im just gonna go ahead and blame technical difficulties for any potential bumps on the road

Rose: I understand, Dave. Your efforts have been valiant, I’m sure, but perhaps they weren’t exactly focused on maintaining your relationship, which could be a contributing reason as to why you’re facing troubles now.

Dave: well ok sure maybe you have a point

Dave: but its kinda hard to focus on keeping a relationship all warm and fuzzed when its always a constant storm of:

Dave: “dave is my hair a mess?”

Dave: “dave can you tell me if this is my blue shirt or my black one?”

Dave: “dave i think theres some decaf coffee in the back of the cupboard can you find it?”

Dave: “dave can you read this for me?”

Dave: and of course i always say i can

Dave: cause im not the one thats fuckin blind am i

Dave: i can walk down the street and dodge lamp posts on my own and i dont have to worry about strolling into the womens bathroom by accident

Dave: so im obligated to be her little human guide dog and i got no say in the matter

Rose: I can’t help but note the bitterment in your tone.

Dave: not bitter

Dave: just tired of not having my own life

Rose: Have you considered discussing your viewpoint with her?

Dave: what just go up to her and be like

Dave: oh hey joan

Dave: you know that blind thing you do

Dave: yeah can you stop that its kinda harshing my mood

Rose: Don’t be stupid, Dave. Tell her your standpoint. Joan’s an understanding girl.

Again, I paused, glancing back in the direction of the darkened bedroom. My fingers lingered over my screen, hesitant.

Dave: but i cant do that to her

Rose: Can’t give her the fighting chance to change both of your situations, ultimately for the better?

Rose: That seems slightly self absorbed, even for you.

Dave: no i mean

Dave: i cant tell her that im hurtin

Dave: i was the one that caused her blindness anyways remember

Dave: complaining about it is more self absorbed than keeping quiet about it dont you think

Rose: You aren’t still concerned about the accident, are you?

Dave: yeah of course im still hung up on that

Dave: you dont just get over things like that rose

Dave: i mean i ruined her life

Rose: There was no way to prevent that tractor trailer from hitting your car, Dave. That’s exactly what the term ‘accident’ alludes to. No amount of self-guilt is going to alter that fact.

Rose: Just talk to her, alright?

Dave: k

Rose: I should take my leave soon. It’s beginning to look like I might finally be able to catch some sleep tonight.

Rose: You should get some rest too. Sleep deprivation can’t help the situation.

Dave: ill keep that in mind dr. rose

Rose: I'd expect nothing less of my patients. Sleep well, Dave.

I turned off my screen again and stood up, stretching out my aching neck. I really needed to stop falling asleep in weird positions like that -- it was such a bad habit. My eyes had long since adjusted to the streetlight glare that crept up from the window and I could easily pick my way to the front door. I grabbed my jacket from the cramped closet.

I just needed a walk.  Some fresh air.

My hand found the doorknob, but I faltered, looking back into the apartment with unease. Maybe taking a bag with me wouldn’t be that bad. Just a few things. A change of clothes. Some socks.

I crept back into the bedroom, taking slow, careful steps over the squeaky floorboards as I passed Joan’s blanket-padded lump in the centre of the bed. She was out cold, snoring softly, but otherwise still. I tried not to look at her peaceful, unaware face, already feeling my stomach start to squeeze.  I focused myself on finding a few clean clothes and nothing more.

Making my way back to the safety of the living room, I bundled my meagre supply together and jammed it into a backpack, grabbed my wallet, slung my jacket back over my shoulders, stuffed my phone into my pocket.

I grabbed the car keys.

Just a short drive. Get some air.

My hand was back on the knob, unsure and trepid.

I reminded myself that didn’t have a plan, which made me feel a little more reassured about things. This was not a permanent decision and that made it ok somehow. I was just getting out for a while. I had the day off work tomorrow anyways and I could do with some time spent in solitude.

I might end up in the park and wait for the sun to come up. Sit on the cold bench and let my warmth drain into the metal bars beneath my jeans. Stay there until my fingers went numb from the rain, let the wind bite my skin until I'm reminded that I'm alive. I’d watch the crows on the pavement in the grey morning light, squabbling and free and fighting over crumbs left near the trash. Maybe take some pictures of them. It’s been a while since I took up my old habit of photography.

My fingers tightened over the brass handle of the front door, and yet I still didn’t turn the knob. I ran a mental checklist of what I had with me, shamelessly stalling my decision to get out of the apartment.

Oh right. Toothbrush.

There were no windows in the bathroom, so I flicked the light on once inside the minimalistic room. Reflex made me close the door behind me, not wanting to wake up Joan with the light, and I realized my blunder a second too late. I felt more comfortable with the the door swung shut anyways, so I left it closed.

Toothbrush. Check. It found its way into my backpack, tucked next to a cotton shirt.

Ready to go.

Glancing up, I was met with my reflection in the smudged mirror. My eyes were too bloodshot to be considered healthy, my brows were creased in a near-permanent scowl, and I could probably do with a brush run through my hair instead of my hands. But looking at myself evoked more queasiness than when I had looked at Joan, and I forced myself to turn away, leaving the sink.

I reached for the door, finally ready to go, but the colour pink caught my eye, not blending in well at all with the sombre blue of the wallpaper, sitting in the small trashbin beside the toilet.

Frowning, I picked up the small,  rosy box and waited for my tired mind to sluggishly comprehend the words printed on the front.

Pregnancy test.

Oh.

_Oh._

That sure woke my brain up.

My fingers tore at the box, ripping it open in search of the actual test. My efforts were rewarded with an instruction sheet, which I quickly discarded, and --

Empty?

Empty.

I picked up the garbage can itself, rummaging through thrown out tissues and soiled bandaids until my fingers encountered hard plastic. I pulled it out quickly, not even taking care to note where my fingers were situated on it.

Inspecting the test, I hoped for some sort of written answer on it. I found none. How do you even read these things? Where did those instructions go…

I skimmed over the cautions and legal jargon in the pamphlet from the box and found exactly what I was looking for -- diagrams. Thank the lord for diagrams.

Two lines on the test is pregnant. One is not.

I checked the test again in my quivering hands.

 

Oh.

 

Somehow, my back found the wall behind me, holding me up and supporting my weakened knees. The bag over my shoulders felt heavier than it honestly was and I slid down to the tiled floor, fingers still latched onto the pink test. For a moment or two, my eyes grew unfocused, dizzied by the floral print on the wall before me, and I was glad I was so near a toilet because the rolling in my stomach wasn’t calming down any time soon.

I glanced upwards to the mirror, not in the right position to see my reflection, but I imagined it anyways: wide eyes, swallowing down heavy breaths, damp hair sticking to the nape of my neck from humidity and sweat.

This can’t be right.

No. Not yet.

Not _now_.

My frantic reverie was shattered by the sounds of footsteps, muffled and shuffling over the carpet of the living room. I swallowed hard and looked again at the dual lines on the pregnancy test, bracing myself for what was to come next.

“Dave are you still up?” Joan’s voice called out, probably near the couch by now. When I didn’t answer, she asked my name again, sounding to me overwhelmingly lost, confused. So very alone when the only person that should be helping her right now was choking back his selfish tears on the cold, tiled ground.

“Dave, where are you? This isn’t funny, come on.” I imagined her feeling along the couch, the kitchen counters, everywhere in the messy apartment, and I heard her knock over a few items with a dull thud, her whispered curses somehow reaching my ears even through the closed bathroom door. I cringed, torn as to what to do.

“Dave… please tell me you you're still here.” She was sniffling by now, voice starting to crack. I had to purse my lips tightly to keep any rogue sobs from escaping. “Please. I know things aren’t how they should be right now but… please don't leave me. ”

I didn’t call out, didn’t open the door, didn’t get up to let her hear my own footsteps.

I didn’t move at all, my body frozen to the cold floor I sat on.

Half a minute passed and still I sat, listening to her confused voice being repeatedly tossed out to me like a life saver until finally she gave up and shuffled her way back to the bedroom. I heard her closing the door behind her, though her quiet sobs were only dulled by the thin wood, not stopped. The sound that reached me was more than enough to stab and at last I gave in to my own silent tears.

I tossed the test back into the garbage.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed my tenses as well as perspective for this chapter (I broke rule no. 1, I know, I'm a bad person) but I really liked how it turned out because of it! Hope you guys enjoy it :)

Early morning motion came slow to her, like the first few unproductive shuffles to the edge of a snowy hill, toboggan tucked under damp pants, waiting for gravity to set in motion. Joan reached out across the bed, fingers encountering soft sheets, eyes still closed, skin still warm, searching for his solidity.

Her expression turned rigid and cold after a moment, after her warm fingers refused to find him and her brain jogged up into pace. Sour memories flooded back in like tidal waves.

It was hard to believe she had almost forgotten about last night.

Quickly losing the desire to get out of bed, Joan lifted the blanket back over her shoulders, up past her face, and then tucked the fabric under the crown of her head. Her damp breath was caught by the fibres covering her mouth and washed back over her skin like soft steam from a fresh bath. It was suffocating, but it was also comforting in a way.

If she focused long enough, it started to feel like his breath instead of hers, his forehead pressed against her own.

She had no idea what time it was and the curious thought of if noon hour had past yet entered her mind lazily. She wasn’t really feeling compelled to leave the coziness of bed to check her audio alarm clock, so there she stayed, silent and drowsy, praying to return once more into the depths of sleep.

She loved dreaming.

Mostly because she could see in them.

It hardly mattered what she dreamt about because the chance to see something, like the twirl of a colourful umbrella in light rain, the shine of light on those stupid sunglasses Dave always used to wear in the summer they had met, the  smiles from elderly cashiers in the grocery store, even when she fumbled with her coupons and apologized profusely, she missed seeing it all. Dreaming offered her a respite from the monotony and, she hated to admit, the _pain_ of living in a sightless world. She jumped at any chance she could to delve back into that vivid environment, where her senses didn’t stop at just her touch and hearing. She loved her nightly paradise and visited it with zeal.

Though it was a lot more refreshing when she spent her nocturnal visits curled up next to Dave.

Blinking the sleep away from her eyes, she yawned. This wouldn’t work if she couldn't get her mind off of where he was last night. Maybe she should just get up. That prospect wasn’t particularly inviting, considering her blankets were warmer than the cool autumn air that seeped out from the closed window’s glass beside the bed, but she had to get up _sometime_. Besides, her bladder felt like it was about to burst and poison her entire chest cavity in a dirty geyser. Couldn’t have that, could she? No one was here to drive her to the hospital and she had to be fooling herself if she thought an ambulance trip was in the already tight budget.

Despite her knowledge that it would be cold, her excursion to the upright and standing world still sent a shiver across her back. She really had to stop sleeping in just a tanktop, it was such a bad habit.

By now she knew her way around the apartment well and traversed the short trip out to the hall in relative silence. There were plenty of discarded articles on the floor of the bedroom, old clothes littering the carpet, stacks of textbooks in the corners that hadn't been picked since Dave’s and her own college days when they had first moved in together. It had never come up, so that was how things stayed.

Joan ran her hand across the tattered couch in the living room as she passed, feeling the small rips in its corduroy suede, imagining what it must be looking like by now. She always used to hate the colour of that mustard yellow couch. But pickings were slim when you were a broke couple trying to make ends meet and not sleep on the floor, so that was what they settled upon and no new money had found its way into the equation for anything new.

Her fingertips found the bathroom door and she swung it open.

_Thud_.

Frown.

She pulled the door back a few inches and then pushed it forwards once more, meeting the same dull thudding sound and frowning again. There was nothing in the bathroom that should have been making that kind of sound.

A grunted groan met her senses and her frown deepened. She gently reopened the door and peeked her head in, careful not to swing it far enough to warrant another thud.

"Jesus Christ, Joan, will you stop hitting me for three seconds so I can get out of the way?"

Oh. It was Dave.

It was Dave?

"What are you doing on the floor?"

The sound of him shifting, his clothes rustling, and a muted grunt as he got up to his feet was the only response for a few moments.

"Don't ever sleep on a tiled floors, Joan. It is such a bad idea. My back feels like shit."

Continuing to frown, Joan took another step into the bathroom, her hands outstretched in search for him. Dave's fingers found hers and he held her hand in his own, but his grip was clammy.

"That's not answering my question, Dave," she insisted.

From the sound of his stiff shirt rustling some more, paired with his tone of voice, she can guess that he shrugged before answering. "I kinda just passed the fuck out last night. Maybe I was more tired than I thought."

A long sense of relief flooded her brain, her fears that he was gone well assuaged, leaving her tired, but grateful. She loosened her grip on his hands to feel her fingers along his arms, over his shoulders and finally to glide over the front his his shirt in what she gauged to be a soothing motion, idly massaging at his neck and shoulders. His hands did not return to her, seemingly just being dropped to his sides.

"You really _shouldn't_ sleep on the floor, even if you pass out," she scolded softly, though her voice wasn't formed harshly enough to be considered an actual reprimand. Biting her lip, she contemplated telling him about how she thought he had left her, but decided against it and stayed silent. Giving Dave more to worry about wasn't something she wanted to do to him.

"Yeah well... you want something to eat?"

Taken aback from the change in topic, but still hungry enough to agree, Joan shrugged.

Dave’s hands found hers again and he pried her fingers off his shirt, holding them at her sides. She let go and backed out of the bathroom, making room for him to pass her. Surprisingly, he didn’t, and instead just followed her out to the narrow hall, his hands reaching out to curl with hers again. She quirked a brow, trying to decipher what he was up to.

His cold fingers edged out of her grip and wrapped around her waist. Stepping closer at his subtle pull, Joan’s eyes flicked around curiously to where she supposed him to be. It was a bad habit, trying to see things and moving her eyes towards them even when her efforts proved fruitless. Joan always imagined she must look a little silly, trying to search out for something that she had no hope of ever spotting.

Her train of thought was derailed clean off the tracks as his familiar lips found hers. Taking a moment before she returned the kiss, Joan set her hands on his waist in return. His sweater was the same scratchy woolen one from last night and he needed a shower, but it was Dave and she wanted some form of comfort even if it confused her, so she relished the opportunity with bold lips.

She realized that the last time they had done this was ages ago, weeks even.

Dave sighed as he pulled back a few seconds later, his breath buffeting against Joan’s senses.

“I’ve been shit lately,” he murmured, still close enough for the movements of his lips to play against Joan’s.

“What? Dave, no, how can you say that?” she started to protest in the same quiet tone, moving her hands onto his shoulders to keep him close as he tried to draw back.

Another sigh on his part and then a long silence. “Joan, stop it. Stop trying to make me seem like some kind of fuckin’ saint. I’ve been shit to you and you don’t deserve that and…”

To this, Joan continued frowning. Not deserving what exactly? His help? Sure, he’s been distant and tired and overworked lately, but that didn’t mean she was being abused by him. “Dave, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, jesus christ, nothing’s wrong, ok?”

That answer came too fast to be credible and she disregarded it entirely, pressing on. “Are you upset at me? Was it something I did? ”

“For the last time, Joan. Nothing. Is. Wrong.” He spat out the words, body going rigid, and she could hear his breathing getting weighed down, like he had just climbed 30 flights of stairs. He apparently noticed the change in temperament as well and returned to his regular tone before speaking again. “Do you want breakfast or not?” Dave’s hands had come to take Joan’s off of him, prying her away with all the tact as a sewer working trying to dislodge  some kind of mess from a drainage pipe.

She swallowed down her next response and nodded faintly, arms hanging down by her sides. It wasn’t worth getting him riled up about. Dave had big enough things to focus upon already and her stupid little askings weren’t important enough to get him worried anymore than he already was.

“Do you want some help?” she offered sheepishly.

He didn’t answer, though Joan suspected he shook his head. He left her, his footsteps bouncing softly against the short hall walls. Staying there a moment and then a moment longer, she let the quiet that he left with her sink into reality, punctuated by the clatter that was now coming from the kitchen.

Regardless of what Dave said, he needed help and he’d never manage breakfast on his own. Joan had traditionally been the chef of the two, but ever since she stopped being able to determine if the cheese was covered in mold or not, Dave seemed adamant on cooking _everything_.

He used to poured her milk into her cereal before she told him to stop. It took him a while to listen, and then he was quiet(er) for days afterwards, almost like he was disappointed in not being able to help her fully. Or maybe he thought she was not appreciating his help enough. Thinking about it was too much of a struggle for Joan to sort through right now, and the urgency to save breakfast before Dave destroyed it in a fury of spatulas and hot pans was paramount.

Keeping her guiding hand on the counters in the open kitchen, Joan found Dave loudly whisking something around in a metal bowl. His pace was all wrong, convulsive and uncoordinated movements that banged against the walls of the bowl, almost as if he were jamming the whisk back and forth, and not in a circle. Joan stilled him, a hand on his wrist, and gently pried the instrument from his grip.

“I was doing fine.”

“You were committing egg murder, Dave,” she sighed, resuming the whisking from where he left off.

“That’s pancake batter.”

“Fine, then you were committing pancake batter murder. Which is, by the way, still a federal crime and you are super lucky I’m not going to report you to the Breakfast Foods Abuse Union.”

“Shit, they have a union for that?”

“Go find me a frying pan, Dave.”

He apparently complied, banging around in the cupboard and making a general noise louder than was necessary. Joan dipped a finger in the batter and tasted the bland mix. It would do, she supposed, and all it needed was little syrup to be fine.

At Dave’s insistence, Joan let him deal with the actual cooking aspect of the cooking, leaving the menial chores of carefully scraping the bowl clean with a spatula for Joan. She knew she couldn’t get the entire thing clean and there would still be streaks of unused batter on the dull, curved metal, regardless of how methodically she worked at removing them, but Dave didn’t make a point of commenting on them. He didn’t even bother to finish the job for her and he put the bowl in the sink. Joan bristle slightly.

“Wasn’t there still pancake stuff on that?”

“Not really a whole lot,” he said absently as he made some noise around in the fridge, apparently not catching on to her stiff tone.

“So you’re just going to throw it out then?” she snapped.

At this, his movements stilled, the fridge door swinging shut with its characteristically muffled thud. Dave took a while to respond and Joan shifted her weight from foot to foot, one hand lingering on the counter for guidance.

“I can make more pancakes if that’s what you’re so worked up about,” Dave enunciated carefully, making his voice as neutral as possible. Joan didn’t think he moved from his place in the room, so neither did she.

“I’m not worked up,” she insisted quietly.

He sighed, coming back into motion, picking up the plate beside Joan and bringing it to the small table. “Sure. Don’t know what I was thinking when I said that. Aside from, you know, you jumping at my throat for some lost pancake batter. But other than that, I have no idea what I was thinking.”

Joan worked her jaw, clenching and unclenching her molars, and then stopped, because that was really bad for your teeth and Dave’s job didn’t cover dental. She stiffly found her own chair at the table and sat down, listening to Dave’s cutlery already clinking against the plate. He didn’t stop or even falter in his movements, just kept going at his meticulous efforts to pretend that entire spat never happened.

Joan had other ideas about how to handle the situation.

“Would you have done that with not-blind me?”

“What?” Dave stopped moving abruptly and Joan looked at the source of his confused voice. She didn’t offer explanation until he repeated his question in the same eloquent wording.

“Wouldn’t you just scrape the bowl if I weren’t blind?”

“The hell does being blind have to do with this? It was mostly clean and I figured it wasn’t worth saving to make half a pancake.”

“Dave, I know you by now. You don’t waste food and the only reason you would have done that was because you felt some kind of dumb emotion that I couldn’t get the entire thing clean and you told yourself that fixing the job after I finished was mean.”

“What?”

“Dave!”

“I am literally saying what, you aren’t allowed to ‘Dave’ at me for saying what.” He mimicked her voice when he said ‘Dave’, adopting a seriously high pitched and whining tone. Joan folded her arms indignantly.

“Can you just pretend to care about what I’m saying?”

“Not if you’re trying to make this a fight about nothing.”

“Who said anything about a fight.”

“I’m pretty sure this is a borderline fight.”

“I think it’s more like a tiff or something.”

“Who even says tiff?”

“I think I just did, Dave.”

“Are you going to eat any pancakes or not, I made them for you.”

“Fine, I’ll eat them. Maybe then I’ll be the perfect invalid girlfriend you’ve always dreamed I was.” Despite her biting words, she took a stab at the tray and plopped a few pancakes onto her own plate. Dave handed her the syrup, and when his fingers brushed hers he didn’t linger.

“No one’s asking you to be perfect, Joan,” he said after the silence between them grew long.

“And no one’s asking you to be either, so just calm down,” she replied between mouthfuls.

“I think on the scale of calm to not calm, you’re just about as far down the line as I am, sweetheart.”

Joan fought not to roll her eyes at the pet name. It had started out as an endearing trait by Dave that she used to love to hear. The word was enhanced by his subtle southern accent and made all the more cute when they were still in the early stages of romance, but over the years it had turned into an almost sarcastic, biting word, stripped of all its previous connotations and used only when the claws came out in fights.

“I meant no one is asking you to be perfect,” Joan continued, ignoring his comment, “so why are you so up tight all the time about how you treat me?”

“How the hell am I uptight in how I treat you? I treat you like I always do.”

“No, Dave, you do not,” Joan sighed, resting her fork against the edge of her plate. “I used to be your friend and we could insult each other all the time and play fight and be best friends like always, but now I’m just something you never dare to break, like as if my losing my eyesight also meant I lost my durability or something. You treat me like anything that would remind me of my disability might kill me and it’s driving me _insane_!” Joan realized she was leaning forwards, on the verge of yelling. Her hands tightly gripped the edge of the table and she loosened her vice hold slowly. She closed her eyes.

It took Dave eons to finally talk, his side of the table absolutely silent.

“I just don’t want to hurt you, Joan,” he finally got out quietly, almost in a whisper.

She sighed softly, letting her head droop forwards, hanging from her sunk shoulders. “You’re only hurting me by not letting me be a normal person. Go ahead, let me mess up and almost burn my arm off and try to muddle through stupid things without you. I’m not going to break down when I realize I can’t see anymore and things are suddenly harder. I know things are harder for me now and I’ll need help sometimes. But just let me have some freedoms or something, let me learn by myself and figure out how to do things again. I can’t adapt to life again with you trying to make everything seem like it never changed.”

“You’re actually asking me to do less for you?”

She nodded, rubbing at the back of her neck.

“How the hell am I gonna do that if you keep making me do shit for you?”

“Well I am not just going to magically be able to do everything again! I will still need you to do some things.”

“Yeah but Joan…” he trailed off hesitantly, again careful not to say the wrong thing, “You got me doin’ _everything_ for you.”

“No I don’t! You always just volunteer!”

“What no, I --” Dave faltered, drew a breath, and then made a weird noise. “Maybe I do volunteer a lot. But--”

“Exactly.”

“But,” he pressed on, “only because I don’t like being in ability to help you and then just _shrugging_ and going ‘welp, guess she can handle it. Might kill her, but I bet she’ll be fine, probably’.”

“Nothing is going to kill me, you major worrywart.”

“I am not a worrywart, do you see any warts of worry on my face?”

“I don’t think I could if I tried,” Joan replied lightly, testing the waters. Dave tried on a chuckle for size and she smiled at the effort.

“That was mean, wasn’t it?” he finally asked.

“Nope. That was you being my friend again. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Damn, so all I gotta do is just make fun of you?”

“Not exactly. But it’s a start.”

Talking to Dave about the matter seemed to loosen him up at least a little, if only for a short while until it started to feel forced and Joan had to remind him again to stop. It was his day off and lately that meant they spent the day in a strange mix between bored and lazy and exasperated, since there really wasn’t much to do around the apartment and Dave fell victim to cabin fever especially easily.  Usually he could be found aimlessly checking out dumb blogs and videos that made him laugh but never really made any sense to Joan, even when she _could_ see the ridiculous graphics, in order to combat his boredom. Those types of distractions usually took most of his day, and all of Dave’s attention with it, leaving Joan to listen to an audio book or watch tv or try and clean up a little around the place.

So she was surprised when he suggested they go out for the day.

She asked what he was planning and he said nothing, and she asked if it would be expensive and he said no, and she asked if she should dress up for it and he said she already looked nice.

So they went.

There was a park not too far from their apartment, one peppered by yelling children and running fountains and a few squirrels who braved the cold in search of something to eat, and Dave took her there, his arm held out for her to cozy up to when the wind turned jealous of their closeness. It was refreshing to get out of the house without the intention of shopping or visiting the doctor, stuffing herself back into just another room to sit in, another building to wander around in. The park was nothing special, but in Joan’s mind’s eye, it was beautiful.

She could imagine the sun sprinkling its generous glitter on the path before them, dousing them in brilliance. The strands of Dave’s hair shone in the glare and he smiled his brilliant smile when she shifted her hold on his arm to play with his cold fingers. The breeze she heard played with the bright leaves she wished she could see, making them dance under their feet and soar up carelessly into the air. Somewhere, a child with bandages on his knees, started to cry and a mother came to his aid, smoothing down his hair and shooshing at him soothingly. A twirl of an open, colourful umbrella. Bright smiles and sunglasses.

For the first time in months, happiness.

They found themselves sitting on the park bench, letting their warmth drain into the metal bars beneath their jeans. But it wasn’t raining anymore and no one’s fingers were to go numb. And the wind wasn’t intolerable when they were pressing against each other’s sides, fingers toying with fingers and palms to palms, the warmth and soft flesh more than enough to remind them they were alive.  The crows made a loud enough noise on pavement in the mid day sun to be noticed, squabbling and free and fighting over crumbs left near the trash. Dave told her about how the light was just perfect on their feathers, making their blue black coats shine with iridescence. He didn’t say anything about wanting to take pictures of them, though, and Joan wondered if he still thought about that.

“Do you still take pictures of things?” she asked, head leaning against his shoulder.

“Hm?” Dave stiffened a little beside her, his stature becoming less slouched and more attentive.

“You used to take all kinds of pictures, back when I moved in,” she pressed on, drawing a solitary finger along the creases of Dave’s palm. “All kinds of things… trees and people and oranges on the kitchen table that you got mad about when I moved them.” She had a faint smile on her face, still tracing his hand. “Do you still do that?”

“Not really,” he mumbled, apparently not feeling like continuing the discussion.

“Why not?”

He sighed and drew his hand back a fraction of an inch. Joan let go, folding her hands in her lap. “It’s a pointless as shit hobby. ‘specially when I got all these other things to take care of.”

“Things to take care of like me?” she inquired softly.

“We’d both be kidding ourselves if we tried to say the accident didn’t change anything in our lives, Joan.”

“I know. But I think you should still keep it up. I used to love your pictures.”

“That’s why I stopped,” he sighed, no longer bothering to keep his calm pretense up for her.

Joan frowned, brow bunching up minutely on her forehead. That hardly made any sense to her but, not wanting to press matters any more and risk getting Dave riled up again, she let it drop.

Well, almost drop. She may have let it lingered a few more moments,  just to satisfy her curiosity.

“You never took any pictures of me.”

“I know.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to look back and see you for how you used to be. I just want to see you in the present.”

She was content with that, and they passed the rest of the afternoon in mutual silence.

 

\---

 

He took her home after they got too cold to pretend to be comfortable, and all the children had left for dinner, latching onto their mother’s hands and following along with reluctant excitement. The sun was making its dreary way across the dreary sky, and Dave told her it looked like it was going to snow. Joan said it was good they lived in an apartment so they didn’t have to shovel any of it and Dave didn’t say anything after that.

He made her dinner, roasted potatoes with chicken, and she made him frustrated trying to help out. Finally, his resistance wearing paper thin, he yielded, keeping himself calm and telling her to get something to drink for the both of them. She went to the fridge and pulled out a half empty bottle of red, wriggling its cork as she closed the fridge door behind her, stopping up the cold seepage by her feet.

Dave stopped cutting potatoes after that.

Turning to the cupboard with a strange lightness to her step, Joan found the thick wine glasses that were in the place they had always been. She had to wipe away a glossing of dust with her palm, then put them on the dinner table, both on one side of the round table, nearly touching. The wine bottle sat between them, a silent sentry over the smaller glasses, and Dave had still not resumed slicing against the cutting board.

“I know you like white,” Joan explained, turning to where he was with a small smile, “but there’s none open and I wanted to finish this one.”

Still no reply, and Joan crinkled her nose.

“Are you ok, Dave?”

“That’s wine,” he finally uttered, small voice, distant and unsure.

“I know, I like wine. We both like wine.”

He didn’t say anything, but he did sigh. The next time he spoke, his voice was almost beside Joan and had a heaviness to it she didn’t recognize. “We aren’t drinking wine tonight.” The bottom of the bottle made a grating noise against the wooden table as Dave pulled it away.

Now it was Joan’s turn to be speechless. She listened to him put the wine back in the fridge and felt the wood of the table against her palms. Dave returned to chopping at last, but it didn’t make Joan feel more comfortable.

“Wh… Dave?” she asked at last.

“Hm?” he hummed in a clipped tone.

“I don’t get it.”

He was quiet some more, the chops of the knife slow and deliberate. Finally he spoke and Joan was beyond confusion.

“I found the test, Joan. You can’t drink.”

Her mind fished around inside itself for something that would explain what he just said, but nothing was appearing out of the foggy grey, no matter how many lines she cast. She settled on a weak ‘What?’ and hoped for the best.

But the best wasn’t going to happen here and Dave grew stormy again, his movements against the chopping board uneven and forceful.  

Joan didn’t press the matter any more, and found herself sitting at the table in silence that evening, a wine glass filled with water at her side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I live for feedback, so tell me what you thought or leave a kudo if you liked it? It would mean so much :D)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter in a mad rush and then edited, hated it, scraped it, rewrote it, hated it again, and then after a few weeks of ignoring it made it into something entirely different so I have no idea how anyone is going to be able to make sense of it but HERE YOU GO at least I updated.

Snow had a way of playing by it’s own rules, tossing the plans of men and tv schedules clean out the window, letting carefully inked agendas soak up the frost of its surroundings. It had snowed heavily that night and the sky brewed and spat thick flakes out onto streets and roofs, lamposts and mailboxes, making the windows ice up and furnaces kick into reluctant overdrive. Somewhere in the muffled silence that freshly fallen snow brought, a zealous snow shoveler heaved into notice, scraping away the generous blanket of cotton white.

Dave was awake before his alarm set off for the morning, no longer able to sleep in the cold of the room. The window he stood before was drawn clean of its curtains, the monochrome of outside spilling onto his bare chest. It alighted his muscles in lines of highlighted silver and smoothed over the softer places where stress and junk food had caused him to grow squishier around the waist than planned. He stood from the third floor of the apartment building, watching the snow drift past the thick pane of glass.

Dave couldn’t see his parked car in the mass of white.

A snowblower buzzed by the sidewalk, the building’s landlord labouring away at chasing away the accumulated flakes, but the wind was strong enough to toss the blown snow back into the path of the machine, only to be blown back into the air, completing the cycle. It made progress nearly impossible.

No one would be going to work any time soon, even Dave, who had the entirety of a tiny office cubicle to look forwards to and a whole day to spend trying not to get caught playing solitaire. Somewhere along his dreams of landing a career as a music producer and freelance photographer, he had found himself as an employee for a law firm,  proofreading emails and doing the dull tasks no one else bothered to do. It was a menial, soul sucking job and it was enough to drive him to the brink of insanity on good days, but it paid the bills (mostly) and got him out of the house (if only to go back into another building), so that was the end of discussion as he saw it. But Dave wasn’t going to try and drive there in 4 feet of snow, regardless of how much they needed cash for rent.

Joan was sleeping soundly on her side of the cramped bed, hair a bedraggled mess, hands tucked up under her chin like an oblivious child. Dave turned from his spot at the window, feeling the cool air radiate off of it and hit his bare back as he watched her sleep. She was peaceful in the way only sleeping people managed, entirely tuned out to the world around her, ignorant to the nth degree. He thought about what Rose told him, which he had been trying to follow, almost obsessively. She said he had been making an effort for helping Joan, but maybe not the right kind, and maybe that was why he stopped loving her.

Padding in bare feet across the carpet, Dave bent to press a soft kiss against Joan’s forehead, curling a few fingers through her hair and brushing the unruly strands out of her eyes. She shifted awake and turned towards him, eyes still closed, and hummed a sleepy greeting. He left his hand in her hair and kissed her again, on the lips this time, softly and slow, in a way they hadn’t done in ages. Her skin was warmer than his and he relaxed in the heat.

She sighed against him when he pulled back.

“Taking the day off,” he explained in his croaky morning voice. “Snow’s too deep.”

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders in way of answer and she pulled him back towards the bed. It was a weak effort, but she was tired still and he got the implication fair enough, flopping over her to lay in his spot beside her. The bed was still warm from where he had lain just minutes before, but he still tugged the blanket over his bare chest when he settled in.

Joan’s arms found him again, drawing him closer to her in the cold grey morning light. Her fingertips traced along the sharpness of his jawline, finally ending at his chin, which she used as an anchor point, a navigation route to his lips once more. He let her kiss him, and she kept it sweet and lazy, full of sighs and half-words whispered out between two pairs of lips.

She didn’t seem to grow tired of the easy rhythm they both fell into and Dave was finding he really wasn’t either, entirely content to get lost in the infinite loop of his mouth playing against hers. It was reminiscent of the months they were just starting out together, when his touch had always been on hers and nothing ever mattered unless it was just that, the feeling of smooth skin under fingers, lips gliding against lips, careful sighs and hummed moans. His hand found her waist, bare skin revealed under the pushed up fabric of her night shirt, and he traced minute circles with the pads of his digits. It made her shiver involuntarily, as it always did, and Dave smiled against her lips, which had finally come to a rest.

He opened his eyes slowly, already adjusted to the soft, silver light that got caught on Joan’s black hair, and saw her smiling as well.

“What do you want to do today then?” he mumbled, lips hardly even moving in his sluggishness.

“I was planning on sleeping till it was more in the afternoon.” Her voice was even croakier than Dave’s. He bit back a snort at that, but she could still hear the beginnings of a laugh on his throat.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Dave reassured. “Go back to sleep.”

This seemed to be enough for her and she scooted a few more inches closer to him, which he didn’t deny, because it really was too cold in this room with only one blanket and a bare window. Her arms draped over his chest as her cold nose pressed into his shoulder, and he returned the gesture, holding her as close as he could manage. Joan entwined a leg between his and her eyes were already closed, but she was not asleep.

They passed along the time in silence, her breathing gentle puffs of heat into his shoulder and Dave feeling his chest rise and fall in time with hers. It was peaceful in a way that only sleeping-in cuddles could be like, and neither felt the need to speak up and change anything.

His nose was pressed into Joan’s hair and the smell of her shampoo greeted him, mingling with the other scents of the room, air freshener that was no longer noticed, mustiness of the mattress, the dust-burning smell of the floor heater kicking into function. Joan smelled like she always did and somehow that smelled like home, and Dave wondered about home.

Home had always been where his room was, where his things were stashed away from view and he could pin up lame posters on the walls and stay up late on music projects without anyone getting mad at him. Home was his brother staying up till three with him to watch horror movies and home was him making fun of Dave for getting nightmares, even when he claimed that he wouldn’t. Home was the apartment he was in now, coming back from work and smelling an actually decent meal brewing in the kitchen. Home was when he had proposed to Joan one night, on a pretty bridge that sparkled with late rain in the street lights, and home was when they had both decided they weren’t ready for it after all and Joan handed the ring back but kept the flowers.

But any illusions of home were shattered the day he smashed their sedan into the guard rail of the highway, a truck spiraling into them like a rogue galaxy, out of control. Home was derailed the moment Joan had woken up on a sterile hospital bed, bandages across her eyes and a doctor beside her who wrote up a report that would be sent to the car manufacturer in 5-7 business days. Defective windshield, they labelled it. Shattered too easily, broke into too many pieces to ever be pulled from Joan’s eyes.

Manufacturer malfunction.

$500 in compensation and not enough money to hire a lawyer to sue for more. And not enough heart to mend together the pieces that the accident left in its screaming wake.

That was where home had been left, on the side of a grimy highway with a skeleton of a car burned into the concrete and the echoed, ghostly wails of sirens, retreating from a lost battle.

Joan had fallen asleep by now Dave figured, her breathing was slow enough and she had stopped shifting around against him. Dave pet at her hair smoothly, ran his fingertips over her scalp, raked out the knots and tangles with careful note. She made a soft sound, more of an exhalation of breath than a comment, and Dave wondered about home.

He wasn’t sure exactly why she hadn’t told him yet about the baby, but there were all sorts of reasons for her to try and keep it a secret. Maybe she was afraid of how he would react, maybe she was hoping he wouldn’t know until later. Who knew, maybe it wasn’t even his baby. They didn’t bother with protection since she was on the pill, and it could have been his by all means if she slipped up on taking it regularly, but they had hardly been intimate in weeks, and he was gone during most days, so who really knew anymore. It was a strange thing for Dave to contemplate her cheating on him and not even get upset about it, but truth be told, he was in no position to be possessive over her at this point. He was lucky to even be here with her still.

That thought was also strange to him, feeling lucky to still have her when he was all but ready to leave a few days ago. Dave decided it wasn’t worth thinking too hard about.

But try as he did, there was no way to erase the slow unease that grew in his stomach when he thought about his life with Joan. So many things had changed with that one little pink box he found in the trash, and he was sure more things still would change.

He wasn’t quite sure about what Joan thought, but Dave had largely never accounted for children in their life together. They weren’t for him, he didn’t like the idea of a big family with finger paintings stuck to the fridge and plastic figurines stuck in the toilet, and kids sure as hell weren’t cheap to take care of. He had also hoped that, in the event of a kid, marriage would have come before any accidental bundles of joy and spit-up, and maybe a better paying job.

That had been his agenda.

But then again, if the snow didn’t play by man’s agenda, then why would a child?

His eyes were growing heavier the longer he thought about this and his grip on Joan lightened till he was simply draped over her comfortably. She mumbled something in her sleep and then giggled lightly, a trait Dave had learned to grow accustomed to, even enjoy in its frivolity. Her chuckles subsided into a sleep ridden sigh and Dave thought about home again on the last dregs of his consciousness.

It made no sense at all to him why she had taken the wine out last night. She should know it was dangerous, shouldn’t she? Didn’t they teach girls that kind of thing in health class? But then again, Dave remembered hardly anything from health class other than the time they were given condoms and had to practice applying them over bananas, the giddy snorts of voice-cracking boys filling the back of the class. He really wasn’t sure what they were taught.

But everyone knew not to drink while you were pregnant, and Dave was sure Joan would have known. So if ignorance wasn’t an option, then the only route left was for her to be careless, or maybe just plain arrogant.

That wasn’t like Joan though, was it? She wouldn’t knowingly do something like that.

Would she?

The contemplation made things all the more confusing. Dave wanted to wake her up and talk about it, but he didn’t want to risk himself to her unmasked fury if he for some reason managed to insult her parenting skills, so he decided that he would keep an eye out for her, a close and maybe too close eye out for her, to make sure she didn’t do anything stupid again.

Dave was asleep before he even noticed it, his hand resting between Joan’s belly and his own.

\---

It seemed Joan always was the lighter sleeper of the two, and Dave was far from unused to waking without her beside him. Rubbing at his eyes, he rolled out of bed and made his way to the bathroom.

He may have been the heavier sleeper, but he was the one with the lighter step, which he tried to keep at bay for Joan’s comfort. It was easier for her to locate him in the apartment if his footfalls were louder and more deliberate, but today he was tired and just grateful to have slept past 6am, brain addled with thoughts of health class and bananas, so who was to blame him, really, for slipping into his usual, quiet step as he got up to find the bathroom.

Passing by the living room silently, half asleep and rubbing at the nape of his neck, Dave stopped at the sound of Joan’s tinkling laughter. Further inspection of the room revealed she was lounging on the couch across from him, obviously not aware of his presence. Her cell phone was pressed against her ear and her eyes were closed, a cheap blanket curled over her like a flattened lap dog.

He wasn’t sure why, but it felt that making a sound would break the joviality of Joan’s mood right now, and doing that was the last thing on Dave’s to-do list. She looked so happy these past few days, he wouldn’t dare break that. Since alerting her to his presence seemed like a bad idea, he padded in his bare feet to the bathroom, opening the door without letting it creak. Joan kept babbling on the phone as he slipped into the smaller room, leaving the door half opened behind him.

Dave knew he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but that never stopped anyone who ever eavesdropped from eavesdropping before.

“I know," she was saying, exasperation starting to tint her words. "I know I shouldn't be getting hopeful after how weird Dave has been acting, but I can't exactly help it. He's being so sweet and stuff, like how he used to be."

She paused for a moment, probably to let the other person on the line answer. Dave idly wondered who it was she was talking to about him, and looked at himself in the mirror, trying to part his tousled hair.

"It's not just that, Rose, and you know it." So she was conferring with Rose. It wasn't a mystery to Dave that the two were close, but he still found it strange that she was used as personal psychiatrist by both of them, getting both sides of the story from each of them through all their thick and thins. The thought occurred to Dave that he may have complained to her about Joan at the exact same time that Joan was complaining to her about him. The notion of how much power his shrewd sister held sometimes was terrifying.

"Well, it's everything! He's completely more attentive since yesterday, and he actually took me to the park yesterday." Joan giggled at something Rose had said. "I had to hold onto his hand the entire time, he was so cold. I'm seriously surprised he lasted as long out there as he did."

Smirking to his reflexion, Dave eased the tap water on, wetting his hands and washing the sleep from his face. Joan apparently didn't hear him, and she continued laughing with Rose.

"And all this snow, wow. It's been a while since we've had this much that Dave had to stay home.I do wish I could see it, though. I feel pretty bad for people that have always been blind and never got to see the snow at all." Joan stopped talking again for a long time, occasionally throwing a few solemn mmhmm's in to let Rose know she was still listening.

The water was cold on Dave's skin and he wiped his hands on the towel. Joan sounded like she was sniffling a little before she started speaking again, but she hid it well.

“Rose, I don’t think he’s like that.” A pause. “Well, I know he was like that but --” Another pause, and then a sigh. “Look. I don’t care what Dave has done to me before, ok? I still love him and if he’s trying to make the effort then so am I.” One more pause, longer than before. “... ok. I’ll keep it in mind. Alright. Say hi to Lily for me, will you? She’s so cute. Ok. Bye, Rose.”

Dave chewed on his inside cheek, eyeing the bathroom door. He probably shouldn’t have heard that. He probably shouldn’t have tried sneaking around in the first place, but he had to admit, hearing the conversation was… interested. It wasn’t often that Joan opened up the part of her that he knew Rose got to see more often, the softer side, the one not afraid to say what she really felt and not have to be embarrassed about who would laugh at her. Granted, half of the situation with her not telling him things was Dave’s fault really, since he had a way of mocking serious topics before he realized they were uttered in earnest. Bad habit.

Grimacing in the silence that exuded from the living room, Dave glanced at the bathroom around him. There wasn’t much to do other than hop in the shower and quietly admit he had been sneaking around for some length of time, but he really felt skeevy having even done it, let alone admitting to it. His eyes tracked to the garbage pail in his thoughts, transfixed and unwilling to focus elsewhere, and he forced himself to blink away. The peak of the tiny pink box was still visible from over the rim of the bin and the sight made Dave’s stomach want to crawl up into his throat.

Moments passed like that, lost in contemplation of where to go or what to do, and Dave eventually groaned, flushed the clean toilet, and opened the door to the main room. Joan looked up from her spot on the couch, where she was apparently knitting something. Dave always found that reminiscent of his sister in a peculiar way, like a scene ripped out from his childhood and pasted back into the present. But then again, Rose had taught Joan to work on her dexterity through knitting despite her blindness, and it really had seemed to work.

“I didn’t hear you get up,” Joan said, sitting upright. It sounded like an apology.

“Guess I was walkin’ quiet or something,” he shrugged in return, padding over to the couch that was largely occupied by Joan’s legs and slippered feet. He nudged them aside and she took the cue, sitting entirely upright with her feet on the floor, knitting on her lap.

“We both missed breakfast. And you missed lunch,” Joan laughed. Dave tugged his lip into a sideways smirk. Her laugh was the one thing he always did find he liked.

“Want some hot chocolate?” she offered, already on her feet, tossing the half knitted scarf onto the couch for a later time to pick up. The yarn got all coiled in her haste and it would be hell to pick apart later, but she didn’t notice. Dave looked at the tangle of string, and then got to his feet as well, tempted to reach out and steady her balance, but she wasn’t wavering in stance.

“Sure.” That was all she needed to be off, marching to the kitchen with newfound determinedness. It was strange to see her so enthused about a simple task, but then Dave remembered she likely had nothing to do all morning alone, and at least this gave her something to focus on.

“Big marshmallows or tiny ones?” she shouted from the other room. Sighing with a tiny smile, Dave padded over to where she was, taking the large marshmallow bag from her grip.

“You know the big ones are for roasting. Small ones for drinks. Jesus, Joan, do I need to teach you everything again? It’s basic fucking knowledge.”

Snorting in the least feminine way possible, Joan took a few small marshmallows from the other bag she held. “You are such a baby about marshmallows.”

“No way I’m the only one that’s a baby over marshmallows. Everyone but you takes marshmallows this seriously.”

“You are the biggest baby, Dave. People all over the world come here on the weekends to see the oldest and biggest baby alive,” she prattled, putting the marshmallows into two mugs on the counter, just waiting for the water in the kettle to become hot. “You might not have noticed them because you’re actually the blind one here and everything you see is just a digital simulation in your head. Sorry to break it to you like this. But don’t worry, Dave. I charge everyone at least 10 bucks to get in here to see the show.”

Dave hopped up on the counter, folding his arms. “Only ten bucks? Seems a little shallow for a class act show like me.”

“I said at least! And it’s not much of a show, to be honest. Mostly we just watch you sit on the couch and read dumb blogs.”

“My blogs aren’t dumb.”

“They are. So dumb, Dave.”

He rolled his eyes and laughed, unable to stop the cheery sound from escaping his lips. Joan paused in her dosing of the cups and smiled at him and he smiled as well, not sure when was the last time he felt so free to say whatever he wanted, or the last time Joan smiled at him like that, will all her teeth. It was a nice feeling and Dave slid off the counter.

“Were you talking to Rose when I woke up?”

“Hm?” Joan was feigning ignorance and it was obvious -- her lies couldn’t fool a three year old if she tried. Dave told her that and she frowned a little, making her lips tug into a reluctant arc.

“I didn’t lie about anything, Dave.”

“I know.” Sigh. Regroup. “I was just curious.”

“Yeah, I was talking to your sister. She uh… she had some news for me.” A careful smile was worming its way onto Joan’s mouth, and she tried to fight it off, but she never was very good at that.

Dave quirked a brow, curious but simultaneously cautious. She had been talking about him on the phone after all… so who knew what this was about? “Yeah?” he prodded gingerly.

“She thinks she can set me up with a job!” Joan finally blurted, entirely abandoning the mugs by her hands, arms fidgeting aimlessly into the air. Dave sighed the greatest internal sigh of the century. He might be the biggest baby, but he was also the quietest sigh releaser. These rankings mattered in his head for some reason, but he never told Joan that.

“That’s great. Where is it?” he finally asked, after his heart rate slowed to a more reasonable pace.

“Rose’s job is working with a place where they’re hiring blind people to train guide dogs. You know, get them ready with disabled people that already know their way around places. But how great is that? I’ll finally have something to do all day. And plus, Rose says the staff is all really nice there, and the dogs are super friendly, and the hours are good, and Dave, I am so excited for this.”

He let her ramble on as long as she liked, and he was genuinely happy, not only for the relief that there was no news about him, but also because he knew this was the best thing to happen to Joan lately. She was an active person and she wasn’t suited well to sitting at home and knitting and listening to infomercials all day till he came home. It was… it was good for her, and he let her know that.

She passed him a mug of hot chocolate and continued babbling along, leaning against the counter for support. He slid an arm around her waist and stood beside her, just keeping his touch on her, his sister’s advice forefront in his mind, and he sipped at his drink as she passed on the gossip from Rose.

“Did she tell you anything about her her baby?”

“Not a whole lot,” he said, shrugging and taking a long sip of his hot chocolate. His fingers kneaded against Joan’s waist, the soft of her fabric bunching against his fingertips. Truth be told, he didn’t know much about Rose’s private life at all, aside from the fact that she was married to a guy he had met once or twice at uncomfortable family barbeques with burnt hot dogs on paper plates, and he knew she had a kid for the last few years, but he had never held her, and the only contact he had with the quickly growing girl was through grained out email photos and midnight phone updates. He used to think that was enough.

“She said her first words a few days ago,” Joan continued on, her voice wistfully soft. There was a strange sort of expression inhabiting most of her face, a queer mix that was tied between content and longing, making her mouth turn into a frown but her eyes crinkle in a ghost of a smile.

“Shit, she’s growing up fast,” Dave mused. There was so much to say to this, so many ways he could steer the conversation away from where he knew it was going, but something held him there, something he wasn’t well acquainted with at all. Maybe it was a curiosity, maybe it was a longing even he didn’t realize he felt. Either way, it made him uncomfortable to think about, so he stopped thinking about it.

“Hm, yeah. Rose brought her over a few days ago when you were at work, did I tell you?”

“You told me.”

“Ok. And I guess she just needed some time off or something from it all, so I looked after her for the day. Her kid is really quiet and I think she was just watching everything all the time instead of doing things and saying stuff. Kind of how Rose is like, you know? I think she’s a lot like her. Maybe she’s like her dad. I never met Rose’s husband.”

“He’s not much to meet,” Dave said with a disdainful roll of his eyes. Rose’s husband was a quiet guy like she was, so maybe it did make sense that their kid would be the silent type. But where Rose was fun and playful in her speech, this guy leaned towards stoney faced, impassive in his nature. Dave was more or less completely turned off from that and maybe that was to blame for him not getting too close to him, or even remembering his name, but he had no desire at all to get to know a man like that. It was curious to him then, why Rose had ever even gotten close to him, let alone marry him. She didn’t talk about it much, so maybe there wasn’t anything there to bother about. Rose could take care of herself.

Joan giggled and gave a soft punch to Dave’s shoulder for the comment, which he was surprised she actually managed to aim properly for. “Hey, cool it, hot rod,” he warned, “There’s no boxing league for blind chicks, is there?”

“I don’t know, but if there was, then you had better watch out.” Joan did the classic one-two punch into the air before them, but the movement was hampered by the mug in her one hand. It ended up looking like a little seizure of motion and Dave chuckled.

“Too bad spilling hot drinks isn’t a competitive sport, because I think you’d nail it.”

Joan’s face froze into a look of frustration and she glanced up to Dave. “I didn’t spill anything, did I?”

“Nah, you’re fine,” he smirked, pulling her closer and kissing lightly on the crown of her head. This seemed to placate Joan and she leaned against him again. Their drinks were cooling in the ceramic mugs and Dave gulped down the last of his. It had a bitter ending but he, as was his tradition, ignored the taste that made his throat tighten.

Together they settled into the closer, quieter atmosphere, the banter from before lightening the air they stood in. Joan gave a contented sigh, finally resting her head against Dave’s shoulder. Snow drifted softly down against the windows, politely asking again and again to be let in, only to be denied again and again once more. Somewhere in the building, someone was having a violent coughing fit. The elevator grinded its gears on its ascent. A minute hand ticked casually down the face of a clock, loosing momentum and speed with every passing moment.

The world just seemed to slow down for a precious, impossible moment, wrapping the two of them in the solitude of their apartment and the quiet of each others touch. There was nothing hungry about the nature of their affections, nothing left to want and nothing left to steal from each other.

They simply were, and the world seemed content to let them be.

Humming a lonely tune to herself, Joan tilted her head up to look at Dave. He looked back, except the only difference in his gaze was he could actually see the sight before him. Joan never wore make up anymore, finding it took her too long to bother with fighting evenly applied eyeliner and unsmudged lipstick, but even so, with her hair in a knotted nest tied above her neck and her oversized sweater loosening her curves, she looked beautiful.

“Dave?” she asked softly.

“Do you really have to start a conversation with my name?”

“I wasn’t starting a conversation, I was continuing one. There is a difference.”

“‘Course there is.” He smirked and he knew she could hear the different tone.

“Shut up, Dave.”

“Fine. What is it?”

She paused, chewing on her lip before looking back up to him with her dull eyes. “Why did you stop taking pictures?”

He held back his immediate response, which was he didn’t have time anymore. Even though, truthfully, it was an entirely honest answer and he had every right to use that as an excuse, since he really didn’t have a lot of time for shitting around in fields, taking pictures of fluffy clouds and generally slacking off. Except he knew that Joan would not buy that, and he knew why.

His pictures were always a touchy subject of his, careful of who got to see them and who would be in them. Each frame was important to Dave and he didn’t like wasting them on stupid objects. Sure, he would take ridiculous selfies and snapshots of fruit on the table and pretend it was art, even hanging the photos on the wall, pretentiously placed in wooden frames worth more than the photo themselves, but that was just stupidness. That was just for fun. That wasn’t his real photography.

He wasn’t serious about those photos, but he was about certain things. Like portraits. They were his favorite to work on, the type of photos he kept from other people’s casual view. He had a strange protection over them, one some might classify as creepy, but the fondness for them didn’t directly stem from the people whom were taken. Portraits to Dave were like mini biographies, entire lives crammed into a single 4x8 inked paper, and each one had to be treated with untold levels of importance. When he had been more industrious in the hobby, he took pictures of everyone he saw, the little boy reaching for the chocolate cereal atop the higher shelves at the grocery store, his sour landlord, with his upturned smile and stained teeth, even Rose sometimes, hiding behind a book, a demure expression litling her lips upwards at words unseen.

That was why he never took pictures anymore. They were too important, too close to his emotions to be trifled with, and there were only a few people with whom he would share them with.

So it hardly meant anything if he took photos and Joan wasn’t there to see them.

But he didn’t say any of that, he didn’t explain why he loved the way a face told an entire story, a novel even, and he didn’t say how he was infatuated with the way a simple gesture in a frame could reveal so much. He wanted to tell her these things, but maybe he was scared, or maybe he didn’t know how to put them into words.

He shrugged, then said, “I don’t know,” lamely.

Joan made a tight frown, something hurt and something hidden in her expression, and she nodded, once, slowly. “I get it. It’s like how I just don’t do card tricks anymore. Did you know I used to do card tricks? I did a lot of card tricks in highschool.”

“You showed me a few tricks when we first met.”

“Right, I did! Those were the best ones, by the way. But I haven’t picked up a deck of cards in years. Some things just change, I guess. That is just the way things are.” She was trying to be as understanding as she could, but it wasn’t right and it made Dave feel even worse than before.

“That’s not the way this is,” he muttered.

“Then what way is it?” came the demand at long last, exasperated and tired.

“It’s not that I don’t like taking pictures anymore, Joan. I still like pictures, taking pictures still feels good and the camera is good and everything about pictures is still good. I just don’t know what to do with them anymore.” It was phrased awkwardly and he said it in a halting, unsure way, but he hoped that the general meaning still got across.

“Just hang them up on the walls, Dave. That is what you do with pictures.”

Ok, so maybe she wasn’t getting the point at all. Dave sighed softly and ran a confused hand through the small bit of loose hair she had near her bangs. “It doesn’t matter,” he finally conceded. “I have no idea why I don’t take pictures anymore, but it doesn’t matter.”

Joan chewed on her lip for a few more moments, apparently thinking this over. Once satisfied with the announcement, she nodded again, more enthusiastic than before.

“You should start taking them again.”

“Jesus, Joan I can’t just start taking them again, I --”

“Why not?” By now Joan was standing up without the support of the counter or Dave, and she wore a bewildered expression at him. “They’re just pictures. It’s just a camera. I don’t get it.”

“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t really,” Dave confessed, raking his idle hand through his own hair out of nervous compulsiveness. Joan didn’t seem to take any note of what he just said, her hands defiantly placed on her hips.

“Dave.”

“What, Joan.”

“You are going to take some pictures and I am going to relearn some card tricks.”

Dave sighed through a groan, but Joan was already off, apparently to gather the needed materials for the days activities.

“Feels like summer camp all over again,” Dave muttered with a completely mature roll of his eyes, following after her all the same.

\---

Despite his qualms about getting back into the hobby, Dave found that he was actually relaxed quite a bit by picking up his camera again, the grip familiar and solid in his hand. Things didn’t exactly make more sense when he was looking through the viewfinder, but it was easier to forget about the problems of everything around him when he was peering through the display. He took a long time just looking at things before he started doing any actual photography, but when he did, it was of tiny, abstract things, like the frayed end of Joan’s shoelace of her favourite runners in the closet, the way the blanket on the bed was all bunched up in the right places and streamed over with afternoon, winter sun. Socks in the hamper. Twisted headphones. A remote resting on the couch, half devoured by the seat cushion. He kept the colour key to just above monochrome, letting a few colours seep into the scene, only the brightest and boldest of the lot, but the rest were consumed by the washed out grey, the cold light that oozed out from the entire world on days like today.

Joan was sitting crosslegged in the living room, shuffling cards and counting them carefully, requiring extra forethought to make a trick work without seeing it in front of her. A stray card fell on the carpet beside her knee, and Dave took a picture of it, letting the bend of Joan’s leg get in the shot. He handed her the card when he was done. She hadn’t noticed she lost it.

There was something about the day, or maybe it was the way the light make her skin look smoother than usual, or it could have been the charm of her smile as she finally got a trick right, but Joan was entirely captivating today. She was more interesting than the dirty mugs he had already catalogued in his camera, prettier than the spiral of frost on the window, warmer than the metal floor heater that ticked and cracked with the changing temperature, and he wanted to remember her like this. He wanted to look back one day and see her, on this day, grinning at her fist full of cards and hair full of mess, and he wanted to smile like he was smiling now, as he raised the camera to his eye.

“Joan,” he whispered, hardly loud enough to hear over the radio in the background. It was enough to get her curious attention and she looked at him, full lips forming a little o of interest.

He took the picture with a quiet click, didn’t look at it in the display, turned off the camera and smiled.

“Thanks for makin’ me do this.”


End file.
